


Repetitive Recreational Operations

by Authorticity



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship For Dummies, Gen, Identity Issues, Incorrect Bar Etiquette, Matryoshka of Justice Makes a Federal Fucking Issue Out of Nonalcoholic Social Drinking, social discomfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 05:50:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17258714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authorticity/pseuds/Authorticity
Summary: Ultra Magnus is not a mech one associates with feelings—and yet. Ultra Magnus is not usually associated with recreational bar-going, either.(Ultra Magnus goes to Swerve's bar, orders something low grade, and leaves. Since this is the Lost Light, this requires much more effort and involvement than one might imagine.)





	Repetitive Recreational Operations

**Author's Note:**

> In my defense, it turns out writing bar scenes makes for fantastic character studies. Additionally, I don't have to justify anything.  
> That being said, if I write one more story about idiots in a bar, I'm pretty sure it counts as a series.

Ultra Magnus goes to Swerve's bar. He does not cite the pertinent regulations regarding clean counter tops and seating arrangements. He orders something low grade, sips it delicately between large, unwieldy fingers, and leaves.

…

The next day, Ultra Magnus goes to Swerve's bar. He does not cite the relevant ordinances regarding unobstructed pathways and wet floors. He orders something low grade, lets it sit on the table for a while, and exchanges dialogue with Swerve on the importance of energon storage. Magnus downs his drink, pays off his tab, and goes back to his hab to get a head start on next week's paperwork.

He informs Rodimus of this in a voice that comes out lower than he meant it to, almost furtive. He _feels_ furtive. It's been a very long time since he's been allowed…it's been a very long time. Since he's. _Tried_.

“Yeah,” Rodimus says, grinning up at him much too brightly. “But hey, it’s progress, right? Objectively. You stayed longer the second night. You talked. That's like, _quantifiabl_ _e_.”

This is very true. It doesn't _feel_ true. Ultra Magnus is not a mech one associates with _feelings—_ and yet. Ultra Magnus is not usually associated with recreational bar-going, either.

It is a damning reminder of the little green body that shifts occasionally underneath his skin.

“You wanna go together next time?” Rodimus asks.

Ultra Magnus considers his bright, fiery captain; considers the host of mechs that seem to flock to him, moth-like, whenever he is off-duty.

He does not want to go together, on his next attempt. He says so.

Some time after the conversation has ended, it occurs to him that it was kind of Rodimus to ask, given how Magnus is. He sends an abridged version of the sentiment in a memo.

Rodimus send him a smiley face, fashioned out of punctuation. Magnus feels oddly warm. Something to bring up, no doubt, at his next routine checkup.

…

Ultra Magnus goes to Swerve’s bar. He does not cite the applicable protocol on minimum lighting levels; but he does intercede in an interpersonal matter that looked to be heading towards violence. The mechs involved are sullen to have been robbed of their fun. Both shoot him resentful glances as they slink out the door.

“Jeez,” Swerve says. “Thanks, buddy. I mean, Mags—Magnus. Thanks, Magnus.”

Ultra Magnus does not cite the regulations on—

“Hey, lighten up, you ol’ drone!” yells an anonymous, drunken voice behind him. The thrown glass shatters against the back of his helm, lukewarm high grade dribbling down his neck.

By the time Magnus had whirled around, combat protocols prickling and something dangerously close to relief thrumming in his abdomen, Whirl has tackled the offender. They break a table, six glasses, and Skids' grappling hook; although the latter is fixed within seconds by an only slightly inebriated Brainstorm. Magnus writes himself a memo to remember to look into that; grappling hooks that explode are a very unpleasant thought.

Whirl spends the night in the brig, along with the glass thrower. As he stumbles past Magnus into the cell, one claw swings up to clumsily pat lightly at Magnus’ faceplate.

Ultra Magnus feels himself still, despite the (incredibly probable) likelihood that it was intended as an attack of some sort. The metal is cool and hard as it brushes his nose—empurata frames didn't have the circulatory systems for things like nerves. They opened and shut, and that was it. There was no life to them.

Whirl passes him without a word; but Magnus feels that flat yellow eye staring at him much too keenly for as overcharged as Whirl was pretending to be.

…

The next day, Magnus catches himself brushing his face plate with a thumb. It is, he thinks, perhaps time to visit Swerve’s bar.

Tonight, he orders something low grade, and does not comment on the state of the stool he is (very reluctantly) perched upon. Ratchet slides onto the one next to him, with a groan. “Your captain’s an idiot.”

“He is your captain, too,” Ultra Magnus reminds him.

“Sure. But when he's a little brat, you get to deal with him.” Ratchet takes a chug of his drink, which is not even _sort of_ low grade. Ratchet's drink—unless Magnus is very much mistaken—is so garishlyly high octane that it most likely has not been in the general vicinity of anything low grade in millenia. It is also now half-empty.

“So how's things,” Ratchet asks without a hint of a slur. Magnus is warily impressed enough to brief him on several declassified topics that he felt relevant to the medbay's proper functioning. When he is done, Ratchet calls First Aid, Rodimus, Whirl, Tailgate and several other tangentially related personnel a bunch of suicidal idiots who couldn't find their own afts if they had a little human helper with them at all times to help them look for it. (The account of this conversation has been heavily summarized.)

When the evening is over, Magnus realizes that he had an enjoyable experience that did not retract from the day’s events.

“ _Progress_ ,” Rodimus says later, grinning and bouncing in place, looking for all the world as though _he_ is the one who has accomplished something.

“Beg pardon?” Megatron asks from across the room.

“We should, like, celebrate,” Rodimus continues as though no one has spoken. “We can have one of those game board charts—like, where you put stars on a course, and when the course is done there’s a prize?”

“That is _not_ a chart.” Magnus’ frown, he is sure, is not as repressive as it ought to be, because Rodimus' smile only widens.

“Sorry, what’s going on?” Megatron asks again.

…

When Ultra Magnus heads back to his hab suite, there is a glitter-covered, hastily-scrawled progression chart and a tab of stickers shaped like little Swerve heads taped to his door.

After several hours of deliberation, he puts it on his wall, as per regulations regarding the permitted modification of personal habitation areas.

…

Ultra Magnus goes to Swerve's bar. He does not cite protocol regarding local noise regulations for this section of the bar. He _also_ does not participate in 'Karaoke Night'; although it is a very near thing.

 _Ultra Magnus is not a figure of entertainment_ , he reminds himself. In the interest of...progress, he hums along to some of the louder songs; when he is quite sure no one is able to hear.

As he is leaving, he passes Tailgate and Swerve with their heads bowed together conspiratorially. He imagines walking over to them, inquiring on the state of Tailgate’s continued studies; Swerve's ongoing efforts to find a roommate. He imagines listening to their news, sharing their company, engaging them in his own life, if only in a small way.

He continues walking.

…

The next night, Ultra Magnus does not go to Swerve’s bar.

Instead, he sits in his hab suite, staring sightlessly at his feet.

He is a fool. Or perhaps he is _not_ a fool; and that makes this worse. He is the only unfoolish mech on a ship full of people whom he has reluctantly come to realize are not troublemakers as the be-all and end-all of their existence; but have simply never learned to deal with the ordinary world in a calm, orderly way. Some have, he knows, and do; but they don't always. They don't _cling_ to it as he does. He—the him that has always been him, not simply the him he has forged himself into—has never had that gift. Minimus has always been good for one thing and one thing only, and that was to be  _no fun at all_. The mantle of Ultra Magnus had nothing to do with that.

He has been deluding himself.

…

“Magnus,” Megatron says, voice strained. His arms are folded tightly to his chest, in a manner that may have been intimidating if it didn't remind Magnus of someone protecting their spark chamber from assault. “I would like to ask a...personal favor.”

“Captain?” Magnus eyed him warily—although that was not very different from how he eyed most people, so perhaps it didn’t matter.

“I have been…” Megatron looked across the room, avoiding eye contact. “ _Pressured_ into attending an event to be held as Swerve’s bar. Rodimus and I have struck a bargain, of sorts.”

“Indeed.”

Megatron makes what can only be described as a Face. “It requires two people’s participation. Rodimus has already secured a partner.”

Ultra Magnus stares at his captain for a prolonged moment, quietly reassessing the situation. “Is this a _date_?”

“ _No_!” Megatron squeaks, and covers his mouth. He clears his throat noisily to try again. “No. I don't….that's not something I do. And it wouldn't be something I did with subordinates.” His mouth twitched. “Or at Rodimus' behest.”

Magnus allows himself a moment to judge. On one hand, he was ebing asked to accompany Megatron to a bar. This was alarming for two reasons: he would be with  _Megatron_ , and they would be in a  _bar_. It would be incredibly foolish to put himself in a situation that was so likely to go wrong.

On the other hand, Megatron was looking at him with a hint of frustrated, confused fear Magnus knew all too well. That feeling was practically a  _Lost_ _Light_ trademark.

“In that case...” Magnus suppressed a sigh, along with the feeling that he was about to mightily regret this decision.

…

Ultra Magnus and Megatron go to Swerve’s bar. As they are approaching, Magnus observes Rodimus ducking through the door ahead of them. As they enter, there is a highly visible flash of gold as he vaults over the bar to hide.

It is only Magnus' regard for one of his captains (such as it is) and his promise of companionship to the other that keeps him from striding over and cuffin the both of them for suspicious activity. 

Magnus catches the faint sound of what can only be classified as  _giggling_. The urge intensifies.

Rodimus and Swerve consult for several minutes, which involves quick, furtive glances in Magnus and Megatrons’ direction and much scribbling on what appears to be Cybertronian-sized index cards.

“I wonder if they realize we can _see_ them,” Megatron says.

Rodimus meets Magnus’ gaze the next time he looks over, and grins. He ducks back down (so that only the thin spikes of his helm are visible) and shuffles over to the other end of the bar. He pops up near their table “Well hey now fancy meeting you here don’t let me interrupt I was just _leaving!”_

Having somehow completed an entire paragraph without proper punctuation in conversational format, Rodimus sprints out the door.

“Amazing,” Megatron says. “He gets stranger in orders of magnitude.”

Just then, Swerve climbed on top of a chair to address the crowd, holding a megaphone Magnus was _sure_ he had confiscated. He would look into it later—he suspected Brainstorm had made Swerve a stockpile. “Mechs and maudlin! Welcome to Swerve's Bar's first annual _Trivia Night!_ Our first topic--” and here, Swerve's visor shifts a hair to meet Magnus' gaze dead on. “--Xenological grammars and literary fonts!”

Megatron makes a little noise besides him.

“Are you _serious_ ,” asks Brainstorm, sounding perfectly horrified. Whirl is cackling somewhere in the distance.

“Like a triple tap,” Swerve tell him, smiling toothily. “Here're the rules...”

…

“Sooo?” says Rodimus.

“I do not appreciate being set up on dates without my consent, Rodimus,” Magnus tells him sternly. They are off-duty—it is easier, if only just, for Magnus to speak so familiarly with his captain. “Especially not with my superior officer. Who is also _literally_ Megatron.”

Rodimus wilts.

“That being said,” Magnus says, uncomfortable with the note of warmth he can’t quite get out of his voice, “It was enjoyable.”

Rodimus brightens again so quickly Magnus half expects the lighting to change. “Meaning you’re gonna try it again?”

“Perhaps,” Magnus says sternly—except that Rodimus isn’t supposed to look _happier_ when Magnus is stern, so maybe it didn’t come out right.

He’ll work on it.

…

Ultra Magnus goes to Swerve’s bar. The counter is damp and the stool is squeaky and there is a light flickering in the corner. He resolves to speak to Swerve about it. Later, perhaps after-hours, at a time where Magnus might help him reach the light and offer advice on keeping up with the mess of his patrons.

He orders something low grade. Ten comes over briefly to speak with him—his tone is polite and interested, but Magnus does not keep him long for fear of dominating the conversation—and when he drink is ready, Tailgate pops his little head up by his elbow to ask if he wants a curly straw, since Swerve gave him two by accident.

“No,” says Magnus. There is a beat. “But thank you.”

Tailgate nods, and scurries over to drop the straw in Cyclonus' drink without asking and climb up into the seat next to him. Cyclonus looks significantly less murderous about the situation than he would have at the beginning of the journey.

 _Progress_ , Magnus decides.

As if summoned, Rodimus saunters in, bouncing on his heels the way Verity used to when she teased Springer or Kup, all projected confidence and potential energy. “Mags! How's it goin'?”

“Adequately.” Magnus sipped his drink. “May I inquire as to your choice of fuel?”

Rodimus sprawled onto the stool next to him. “Tailgate mentioned Cyclonus like the McFly, so I bet Whirl that I could down ten of them in one go.”

“Yeah,” Swerve says in passing, arms full of empty cubes, “As a responsible bartender, I’m cutting you off at six.”

“ _Pay up!_ ” Whirl cackles.

“What! That’s not—Magnus, does that count? That doesn't count, right?” Rodimus scowled.

“Did the bet specify between literal or physical ability to imbibe ten McFlys?” Magus mused. “If not, then Whirl has won the letter of the bet.”

Whirl falls over laughing. Perhaps it would be wise of Swerve to cut him off as well. “Heyyy, thanks, Maggie!”

“You're quite welcome.” Magnus sipped his drink, feeling oddly light. There is a faint, stiff ache in his upper lip. “You may both expect the fine for gambling violations in your respective inboxes by tomorrow morning.”

“The moral victory will have been worth it,” Whirl says solemnly. He falls over.


End file.
